Longing, Loss and Lies
by Kizmet
Summary: Just a little mood peice shortly after Gambit returns to the XMen from Antarctica. Added a compainion piece for Rogue's side of things. [redrafted]
1. Longing, Loss and Lies

**Longing, Loss and Lies**

Disclaimer: Characters and Premise are borrowed from the Marvel, I'm not making any money.

The air outside was bitter. Fall gracelessly giving way to winter, an ugly time of year. Gold and red leaves gone, trodden into the mud. The beautiful, if inhospitable, cloak of snow and ice yet to be donned. But the damp, unforgiving cold had already set in with a vengeance. 

Still whatever the climate outside, the club was warm. The sweaty, living heat of too many bodies, too little space and the driving need to move. Multi-colored lights splayed across the crowd, illuminating without revealing. The pulsing beat of the music was a tangible thing; Remy could feel it vibrating in his chest, begging his heart to join its rhythm. He wished he could comply, the need to belong, to submerse himself in a greater whole was all consuming tonight. 

He slipped off his long trench coat, letting it join the carelessly discarded jackets and bags piled along the walls. 

A woman leaning against the wall, taking a break from dancing paused to admire him. Black jeans and a fitted maroon tee shirt showed off a rangy, well-muscled frame topped by thick, russet hair, pulled back into a ponytail and overly long bangs that obscured his eyes. 

He pushed the bangs back out of his face with an unconscious gesture and the woman started, she hadn't expected to see the colors of his clothes echoed in his eyes. He noticed her staring and smiled flirtatiously. With that smile his angular features transcended handsome. 

She smiled back, deciding his unusual eyes suited him. And if he was a demon... well, he was one she wouldn't mind getting to know better. 

Her eyes followed him as he slipped smoothly into the crowd on the dance floor. As more bodies crossed between them she lost track of him, with a slight sigh she turned back toward where she'd left her friends. 

The dance floor was well filled, but not so crowded that the clusters of people who came together couldn't be distinguished. 

Remy moved toward the center of the floor, gracefully winding between the other dancers. With every step he fell further into the music, loosing himself to it. His movements were fluid, sinuous, body and mind perfectly in tune and one hundred percent in the moment. He could have been a professional dancer, a gymnast or a martial arts expert... or a thief. 

The clusters of dancers around him opened up, welcoming him in. His eyes warmed, shining with new life, a true extrovert, gaining energy from being a part of the group. 

As the night deepened the crowds thickened, bodies brushed and jostled one another. The rhythm of the floor shifted, becoming more intense, more intimate. 

A slight blonde pressed close to him. Swaying together she leaned close. "Remy, I thought you couldn't come?" she yelled over the music. 

" 'M playin' hooky chere," he responded grinning wickedly. 

"Claire, not Cher," she corrected with an amused smile, pulling him toward a group of friends. "Look who decided to grace us with his presence." 

Welcoming smiles. Familiar faces. Easy for him to return the friendly greetings. Hard to hear one another over the music. Conversation was quickly forgotten in favor of dance. 

The crowd peaked and began to thin as the night waned. The dancers spread out and pairs began to form. The lights were raised slightly. The music softened and became more eccentric as the remaining dancers scowered the DJ's collection for waltzes, swings, salsas and the like. Tables were pulled away from the walls, giving people the option of looking or chatting, in addition to dancing. 

The couples on the floor broke and shifted and reformed almost as often as the songs changed. A glance, a smile, a hand offered. It was easy, practiced, little fear of rejection here. 

Remy's partner of the moment sighed heavily, her dark curly hair swaying with the weight of it. He spun them around in time to see a slender red-head swung around her partner's shoulders to land lightly, barely needing the steadying hand he caught her with. 

"Rob an' Mindy be show-offs, neh?" Remy asked. 

Large dark eyes stared up at him, making their owner look younger than her years and another wistful sigh answered him. 

"Remy always enjoyed showin' off hisself," he commented. "Want to do dat petite?" 

He lifted Vanessa easily, tossing her into the air then caught her and flipped her head over heals before setting her lightly back on her feet. 

A few more measures and the song ended. Remy escorted Vanessa from the floor as she gushed, "That was so 'Strictly Ballroom'! God, Remy where'd you learn that?" 

His mind's eye flashed to countless battles; the concussive force of explosions, the deadly ballet of combat. Knowing the physics of catching a falling body, of propelling a teammate into the fray or being on the other side of the equation, like the back of his hand, because mistakes there could cost lives. "Mebbe we watch de same movie chere," He said. "We dance 'gain in another few rounds, oui?" 

"Any time." He left her smiling, totally besotted and completely distracted. It was habit, diverting them from even the most innocent of personal inquires. He never quite lied, at least not with his words. 

The first time they invited him to join them during the latter part of the night, Rob had asked, "What do you do? Besides making the rest of us guys look bad?" 

"I be a thief," he had answered, his expression and tone making certain that none of them suspected that his reply had been the unvarnished truth. 

They'd laughed, smiled, obliquely gave him permission to tell other amusing lies. He basked in the warmth of their easy acceptance; they didn't need to know him to like him, to let him in their circle. They let him keep his secrets, but then they didn't depend on him for anything either. 

None of them gave much beyond an evening of company. A lovely shallow pool, sun warmed to it's bed, no depths in which treasures or terrors might be hidden, likely to go dry under the heat of passion. No replacement for what he had lost, maybe forever, but close enough to blunt the craving. 

"Thief of Hearts I'll grant," Claire had replied. "Vanessa hasn't stopped drooling since the first time she saw you at the club." 

He grinned at the thought of sardonic, little Claire. She was nearly as secretive as he was. Only she did it without his deliberate aura of mystery and no one really noticed. And there she was, standing at the edge of the floor, scanning it for prospective partners. He waited for her eyes to meet his. Then as the music started he offered her a slow, seductive smile. 

Her mouth quirked in exasperated fondness as she rolled her eyes heavenward, but she also hurried to take his hand. 

The beat steadied into a sultry Rumba, the lovers' dance, the easiest for him to play at. She matched him step for step, hips swaying sensually, eyes locked even when he spun her away, as if they where the only two in the world, and she came back into his arms as if it hurt them to be apart. 

And then the song ended. "Thanks for the dance," Claire said casually. They stepped around Rob and Mindy, still lost in each other and Remy felt a twinge of jealousy, even the most casual acquaintance could see they were in love and when the night ended they would go home together. 

The floor emptied, many couples departing for their homes and beds. The tables filled with people yawning, smiling and chatting with friends. Remy moved from group to group, chatting a little, or just listening, always returning to the dance floor and it's charade of closeness after a song or two. Tonight he wanted openness, wanted someone who truly knew him to smile and welcome him like these all-but strangers did. 

Eventually even the die-hard dancers drifted to edges of the floor and the DJ began packing his equipment. One last waltz came on, old, Irish, plaintive. Remy winced. Claire took his arm with an apologetic smile. 

"I hate this song too," she said. 

"Can't sit out de las' dance," Remy said, letting her slip into his arms. 

_Little white lies on a ballroom floor Will you stay and dance tonight? Little white lies, do you believe them all? Or should you just say good night? You know your heart ain't really there It's somewhere back in time But you stay some more and listen to white lies._

The tempo was slow and hesitant, the key minor. Unconsciously they drew closer together. Claire's eyes closed and she leaned into his shoulder. Remy made no mention of the tears that gathered in the corners of her eyes, but his hand inscribed gentle, comforting circles on her back. They glided slowly across the floor, letting the quiet rise and fall of the music take them where they wanted to be. 

_So long ago the memory's faint Her heart still feels a little pain. Like China dolls they Waltz in time Inside a music box The dance it cleared The night got cold His love she had lost_

They twirled them slowly about the floor, ignoring the other dancers, barely even aware of each other. Remy's thoughts fixated on a battered queen of hearts. A worthless little square of faded cardboard that had been invested with so much meaning then thrown away with such distain. He pulled Claire closer, concentrating on her warm living presence in his arms, wishing she were just a few inches taller to complete the illusion. 

_It hides between the pages left unread. His photograph, yellow now with age. Sometimes she'll take a look at it, And dream she's in his arms. With tears, Her eyes they look, And she's staring at the stars._

Claire sighed softly, her body moving to the lead of ghost. Remy complied, letting her memories direct them. The distant look of pain in her eyes drew him in a way none of the others could. There was a connection in misery, in loss, in hopelessness. He didn't know how she'd come to be left alone and hurting, whether it had been by chance or her own stupidity, whether the barriers between her and the one she longed for had been created by fate or design, and he didn't care. He could see the pain was the same and that was enough. 

_She's back there every Friday night it seems. In strange but willing arms she'll dance and dream. Sometimes she hopes that one will say, Please, can I take you home? And the answer she knows will be yes, She's tired of being alone._

"Can I take y' home?" Remy echoed in a soft whisper. 

Claire shook her head, tears tracking across her cheeks. "Ask me again next week," she said. 

"Den it'll be my turn to say no," he admitted, still holding her close. 

Claire's laughter was watery, ending in a soft hiccup. "Safer that way," she said. "We're only pretending." 

"What's wrong wid a little pretending?" Remy asked. 

Claire pushed them apart, by several inches. "I'd hate you in the morning," she said. 

"An' I wouldn't argue wid dat sediment," Remy sighed. "Guess it be time to go home, neh?" 

"After the dance," Claire said. "A few more lies won't hurt." 

_Little white lies on a ballroom floor Will you stay and dance tonight? Little white lies, do you believe them all? Or should you just stay good night? You know your heart ain't really there It's somewhere back in time But you stay some more and listen to white lies._

Cyclops was waiting at the boathouse when Remy got back. He ignored the glowering X-Man, dropped his coat by the door then slunk over to the stereo and hit play on the CD player. As the first strains of music shattered the accusatory silence he collapsed on the couch. 

Scowling Cyclops moved to stand over him. "I made sure you were aware that there was a team practice last night," he said. "You chose to come back, I assumed that meant you wanted to be a part of this team." 

Remy laughed bitterly, flashing back to his most recent fight with Rogue; her angry, suspicious questions making it clear, once again, that her love for him was had more strings than a puppet. Knowing with his dept to New Son, his dept to ghostly green entity... Debts he'd incurred because of her, he'd never be able to live by the conditions she set and that it would only be a matter of time until she didn't love him anymore. He remembered Bobby and other teammates' barely suppressed amusement at his hopeless attempt to placate her and their approval of her interrogating him, again. The cold silences that seemed to follow him around the mansion... "What I want ain't de only issue." 

"No one made you skip out on practice. If I can't count on you..." 

"Y' know dis boy be from de bayou Cyke. I get de need to go somewhere warm. De chill round here's killin' me," Remy said quietly, hoping for understanding 

Cyclops drew a breath to continue his lecture then paused, looking at Remy, slumped sullenly on the couch, waiting, body subtly braced as if expecting a blow. 

Scott sighed. "This is hard on everyone you know. There's no way to forget what happened in the tunnels. You're an easy scapegoat," he said. "I know it's not fair, that you didn't know what you'd gotten into, that Sinister used you, but keep trying, it will get better, with time. Not blowing off practices might be a good place to start." 

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	2. Watching, Waiting and Worrying

**Watching, Waiting and Worrying**

Disclaimer: Characters and Premise are borrowed from the Marvel, I'm not making any money.

Many thanks to Faith for her advice on this story. 

****** ****** ****** 

It started as just an itch in the back of the skull. The feeling that something in her world was askew, despite the general air of peace and relaxation that held sway in the mansion. The last of Bastion's indignities had been wiped away. The usual troublemakers were quiet. Life was back to the more pleasant end of normal. Or was it? 

The nebulous feeling made Rogue restless. The well-worn book in her lap couldn't hold her attention. The cheerful, crackling fire burning in the hearth didn't make the room feel homey. Every voice or footstep drifting in from the hall caught her ear. Every glimpse of movement out of the corner of her eye brought her head up. 

After half an hour had passed and only four pages had been turned Rogue sighed and set aside the book to seek out the source of her disquiet. 

An agitated clatter of dishes drew her steps toward the kitchen. She opened the door to find the most reluctant of the X-Men's newer recruits, Dr. Cecilia Reyes, standing in the center of the room, fists planted squarely on her hips, dressed in the scrubs she still favored as working clothes, glaring at Bobby who was standing at the sink up to his elbows in soap suds, washing dishes with an excessive amount of banging and clattering going on. 

"Y'all doing okay in here?" Rogue asked a faint smile tugging at her mouth. 

Cecilia snorted, Bobby turned from the sink with a bright, pleading, practiced smile on his face. "Rogue, my bestest bud, survivor of numerous lame attempts at humor, would you please explain to the Doctor that I always clean up after my pranks? I don't need her standing over me like a disapproving parent and I don't need to do this right now!" 

"What, ya got a hot date?" Rogue asked lightly. 

"Wouldn't you like to know," Bobby replied arching his eyebrows. 

"I don't care if you have an appointment with the president," Cecilia stated, her face drawn into a scowl. "You put that sludge in the coffee, you can clean the pot and all the cups you contaminated." 

Bobby turned his best innocent, sincere expression on her; blue eyes wide, face open and trustworthy, arms spread beseechingly... soapsuds dripping on to the floor. "And I will," he promised. "Just not right now." 

"Now," Cecilia said. "Before it has a chance to set and you could mop the floor too." 

"Rogue make her be nice to me," Bobby pled. 

"She followed ya home sugah, I'm not getting involved," Rogue said shaking her head and backing out of the room. " 'Sides, you remember who put ice down mah back the other night?" 

"Come on, you wanted an excuse to leave anyway," Bobby argued. 

"Now why in heaven's name would ya think that Icecube?" Rogue asked frowning. 

"Well, Gambit was there," Bobby said with a shrug. 

"And ya though I needed savin'? How long's it been since the last time ya been hit in the head Bobby? We were just watching TV." 

"You were making up," Bobby said. 

"And what's bad about that?" Rogue demanded. 

"I'm tired of seeing you hurt when it doesn't work out." 

"Cecilia, don't ya think the floor in here needs waxin' after Bobby gets done moppin' it?" Rogue asked as she turned to leave the room. 

Her next stop was the garage, as she approached her nose wrinkled at the smell of fresh oil. Automatically her eyes scanned toward the spot where Remy normally parked his motorcycle. A measure of tension went out of her frame upon seeing it there, chrome gleaming brightly in the winter sun. 

"Checking up on Gumbo, darling?" Logan asked, scooting out from under his jeep. 

"Ah am not," Rogue insisted guiltily. "Just been feelin' a little off today, thought maybe it'd go away if Ah could pin it down." 

"And Gambit's bike was the first thing you thought to check?" Logan inferred. "Keeping tabs on him won't make him stay, you know." 

"What do ya suggest; handcuffs?" Rogue asked sarcastically. "Remy'd have them unlocked in a heartbeat." 

Logan laughed. "Who knows he might like that, if you were the one to put 'em on him. Seriously, darling, ya worry too much. He always comes back, you must have some sort of hold on him." 

"What if he doesn't?" Rogue asked. 

Logan took a long look at her. "You afraid of him leaving or getting hurt?" 

"Either. Both." 

"Rogue, Gambit did come back to you and he's better than most at getting himself out scrapes." 

"Only because he's got so much practice at it," Rogue said. "But even Gambit can't beat the odds all the time." 

"You can't stop him from trying," Logan said sliding back under the jeep. "Getting yourself worked up like this won't change him." 

Rogue turned and strode determinedly back toward the house and her book. "If I'd wanted your opinions I would have asked," she muttered under her breath. 

In the sitting room she flounced on the couch, intent on ignoring all further unsettled feelings. After a few minutes she found herself glaring irritably at the clock on the mantle, wondering who, in their ever-loving mind, would want a clock which ticked that loudly. Who wanted to be reminded of the passing of time each and every second? 

She gave up the book as a lost cause and headed up stairs, deciding to collect her laundry and get something done. Once the machine was loaded she started a work out program in the danger room. The feeling that she might miss something important while she was sequestered away in there kept her from settling into her routine. 

She pushed her way through regardless, her movements short and abrupt, bring squeals and groans of complaint as the equipment struggled to cope with her abuse. 

When she was done she frowned at the clock, she had time for a quick shower before dinner, but she wasn't happy about seeing the end to this wholly unsatisfying day approaching. 

Rogue pulled up a chair between Scott and Storm at the mostly empty dining room table fifteen minutes later. Storm was frowning a little and glancing repeatedly at the door. 

"So Hank's got Cecilia eating in the lab now too?" Rogue commented. 

"They're not eating," Jean replied. "Hank thinks he might be on to something, we've got orders not to disturb them unless the world's ending." 

"And since we already had one of those emergencies last week we're probably good for awhile," Bobby said, shrugging as if to say our lives are strange, but hey what do you expect? 

"Remy should not skip meals," Storm said pushing her chair away from the table. 

Warren and Betsy walked in, dressed to the nines, several minutes later. 

"I thought you guys has a date?" Jean said. 

"We did," Betsy replied. "The restaurant was closed, a hepatitis out break. I lost my desire to eat out. 

Warren nodded his agreement. "If they could have issues with health code violation there I hate to think what the rest of the city's restaurants are like." 

Storm returned alone. "Rogue, have you and Remy broken up again?" 

"We haven't even had a chance to get back together to break-up!" Rogue exclaimed angrily. 

"If there is something wrong perhaps I could speak with him about it," Storm offered. 

"I ain't the only reason he takes off all the time!" Rogue snapped. 

"Too bad he keeps coming back," Warren murmured to Betsy under his breath. 

Storm ignored him. "Rogue, I wish to help. I dislike seeing the two of you struggling like this. Having a neutral party might help." 

"We don't always fight," Rogue insisted. 

Looks of amusement and pity were passed around the table. "Of course you don't," Betsy said patronizingly. "Sometimes you're not on speaking terms. Or maybe I've got it all wrong, maybe he's just off setting up another..." 

Thunder crashed outside the window. 

"Shut up now if ya plan on walking out of this room!" Rogue hissed, her green eyes flashing. 

"It's too bad you're first impulse didn't work out, then we wouldn't have to be worrying about what he's up to now," Warren said. 

Rogue's chair clattered to floor, for a moment she seemed about to fly across the table and attack Warren. Then she turned and stalked out of the room. She paused in the hall leaning back against the wall pulling her frayed temper back together. 

Storm's voice, cold and imperial, drifted out of the dining room. "It was my understanding that the X-Men were about second chances, not passing out judgment and playing executioner. You of all people should remember that, Archangel" 

In the hall Rogue bit her lip, then slipped upstairs to her room. 

Rogue's sleep was restless, the covers slipped from her body and she shivered in the cool night air. 

In her dreams it was much colder, a degree of cold she'd never felt and probably never would feel with a body adapted to fly at near-sonic velocities. In her dreams the bitter freezing cold crept into her limbs, leeching away warmth and life as the bleak landscape of unbroken white leeched away hope. No one to hear if she called for help, no one to care if they did. 

Slow silent tears of regret trickled down her cheeks as she slept. 

As the following day wore on the itch in the back of her skull sank to the pit of her stomach and began collecting lead. 

Determined not to worry about something that was probably nothing, Rogue decided to go flying. The icy air was no deterrent to her. The high, thin stratosphere she loved to frequent was always cold, clean and crisp. 

Flying made her feel alive, feel free. The currents of air wrapped around her, tugging playfully at her clothing. The brisk, wild wind parted around her and swept her problems and frustrations away. It ran through her hair like gentle fingers and the distant sun caressed her face, untroubled by her by her powers, uncomplicated. 

She laughed, spread her arms and dove, cutting through the air like a knife, pulling up mere inches from the ground to soar to new heights. 

Her good mood lasted until she noticed the darkened windows at the boathouse. The lead ball in her stomach reappeared and doubled in size in the time it took her to land at the front door. 

The instant she stepped inside she knew Gambit was still gone. It was a simple deduction; the heat was turned down. Sometimes Rogue though the main reason he'd chosen to live at the boathouse was he'd gotten tired of listening to complaints about how he turned up the thermostat in every room he might want to spend time in. Given the option he'd have converted the whole mansion to a sauna. 

Rogue bit her lip. "He's from New Orleans," She told herself. "He's always hated the cold." A traitorous voice in her head piped up to remind her that while it might technically be the truth, he'd only started acting obsessive about it since he'd come back. 

Just like she didn't used to keep a subconscious tally of how many times she could miss seeing Remy when she expected to before the sick, heavy feelings of guilt and grief started creeping back into her soul. 

For months she'd thought he was dead, she'd believed it was her fault. Sometimes, when he was gone it felt like a dream that he'd returned, that he was alive. When he left on his mysterious errands she wanted, needed to know where he was going, when he was coming back and that he'd be safe while he was gone. 

She wanted to hold him close and convince her heart that he was real and that he'd forgiven her, but he held her at arms length and even if the former was true she had to wonder about the later. 

With a sigh she headed up to his room to see if she could guess how long he'd planned on being gone by what was missing. 

His thieving gear was the first thing she checked for and the first thing she found missing. 

The mansion's security room was a cold, sterile place. Rows of monitors and sensor banks that seemed to demand cool, analytical observation, Rogue ignored the suggestion. 

She paced the room before the frozen image of two men, one a charmer with red-on-black eyes, the other slender, using arrogance to cover nerves, Gambit and Courier, leaving the mansion grounds together. 

Rogue drew back a fist to strike the monitor, only to have her rage deflected by a telekinetic shield. "Scott would have a fit if you broke that after all the trouble he had getting the systems back together again after Bastion," Jean commented leaning in the doorway. 

"Fine! Ah'll take it out on the real thing," Rogue snapped. 

"You know," Jean said. "Some people might consider it an invasion of privacy to use the security system to check up on their boyfriend." 

"And some people have boyfriends who tell them where they're going! And who don't consort with lowlifes like that!" Rogue retorted, her finger jabbing accusingly at Courier's image. 

Rogue flashed back to the last time Gambit had left with Courier, well the last time she'd know of it anyway, flashed back to pulling him out the middle of an explosion. 

"Ah don't want to act suspicious of him," Rogue said. "Ah'm sick and tired of all the fighting. Ah just want to know..." 

"Where he is every minute of every day?" Jean suggested. "Rogue, he's not going to change, and this whole thing just makes both of you miserable. Have you ever thought about breaking the cycle? Walking away and meaning it?" 

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